


you've stepped back from the brink

by spacenarwhal



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Sexual Situations, Brain Damage, Consensual Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 02, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 07:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13922622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: They’re still new to this. Between world saving antics and the unmitigated exhaustion it leads to there hasn’t been time, they’re more likely to use the beds in their respective rooms for sleep than they are for any other activity. If ( a dangerous word, one Jemma uses in labs and on paper but works tirelessly to eradicate  from her personal life after too many months ofif she’d swam faster if she’d woken sooner if she’d shared the air if she’d talked him out of it if she’d thought of something if she’d stayed if he died)if this had happened differently: they might have stumbled back to his room after a night in the Boiler Room, drunk on cheap beer and adolescent arrogance, or maybe in the dusty depths of the library like one of the many romcoms they heckled in her room. He would have fussed with her bra and she would have taken pity on him, teased him and laughed and rained kisses on his face without the memory of sea salt on her lips.





	you've stepped back from the brink

**Author's Note:**

> I've been home sick for two days now and binge-watching AoS and I remembered once, many moons ago, starting a little FitzSimmons fic and lo! friends here it is. According to the file I saved it on December 15, 2014 probably after the midseason finale when everything was 'Trip can't be gone right? This show wouldn't do my son like that?' and everything hurt. 
> 
> So Simmons was never swallowed by a space rock and we didn't know Skye was Quake yet and oh, those were simpler times. 
> 
> That said, this is almost 100% porn. Enjoy!

He can’t get the clasp undone. Jemma spends a red-faced minute berating herself for wearing one at all—lacey and sheer with tiny impossible clasps, how ridiculous of her, she should have gone without, should have thought it through. She holds her breath and keeps still and tries her hardest not to fidget, not to reach behind her and unhook the thing herself. Fitz’s brow creases, like it does in the lab when he can’t make something work the way he wants it to and there was a time when Jemma would have laughed seeing him like this but that time was a long, long time ago now. “Sorry, sorry.” Fitz mumbles mostly against her shoulder, and Jemma shifts her weight on her knees, tries to keep from sitting on him completely as he tugs a little more forcefully. “It’s alright, just—” 

They’re still new to this. Between world saving antics and the unmitigated exhaustion it leads to there hasn’t been time, they’re more likely to use the beds in their respective rooms for sleep than they are for any other activity. If ( a dangerous word, one Jemma uses in labs and on paper but works tirelessly to eradicate from her personal life after too many months of _if she’d swam faster if she’d woken sooner if she’d shared the air if she’d talked him out of it if she’d thought of something if she’d stayed if he died)_ if this had happened differently: they might have stumbled back to his room after a night in the Boiler Room, drunk on cheap beer and adolescent arrogance, or maybe in the dusty depths of the library like one of the many romcoms they heckled in her room. He would have fussed with her bra and she would have taken pity on him, teased him and laughed and rained kisses on his face without the memory of sea salt on her lips. 

“Wasn’t always this bad.” He mumbled dourly after the first time, when sex had felt like a race but the finish line had been smudged and sullied by too many false starts and sudden stops. Neither of them had been able to orgasm from intercourse, and he’d turned his red face into the pillow when she’d taken him in hand and coaxed him through the end. “It wasn’t,” she’d answered, surprised by the sudden burst of shyness taking hold inside her, desperately trying to ward off the embarrassment threatening to seep beneath her skin when she thought of how she’s wiggled against her own fingers while he’d kissed her neck. “Bad, I mean.” She’d pressed close to him in the near dark of his bunk and kissed his cheek, at a loss of what to say that wouldn’t upset him.

She’s still figuring that one out.

For two incredibly intelligent people they’re terrible at using their words, far more likely to set off a long buried landmine then they are to navigate their way to home safely. (The first time she’d asked him to let her help him while they were in bed together had brought their evening to a full-stop and led to an terse conversation in the middle of the garage with a very uncomfortable Mack playing moderator.) 

Actions are safer by comparison. 

Jemma’s always believed in following her instincts, gives into the urge to kiss him, takes his face in her hands and tilts his mouth towards hers until they’re perfectly aligned, until his breath rushes out of him in a single long sigh and his hands abandon their task to press flat against her back. They’re warm and broad and, yes, there, slight tremors in the muscles of the left hand, holding her close and still trying to pull her closer. She applies herself to kissing him like she does to everything she does: thoroughly, deeply, whole-heartedly, kisses him until the oxygen deprivation makes her lightheaded in a way that doesn’t remind her of the crushing darkness at the bottom of the ocean. She strokes his cheeks, the rough stubble on his jaw that rasps beneath the pads of her fingers, touches his shoulders, runs her hands along his arms, reaches behind her as carefully as she can. He stiffens when she takes his wrists in her hands, but he doesn’t pull away, makes a questioning noise against her mouth and lets her guide his hands forward. 

His palms curve around her breasts when she presses against them—Fitz’s hands aren’t like hers, wide and always warm to the touch—Jemma keeps her hands over his for a long second before letting them fall away. Fitz’s don’t move. Or well, they do move, but not away. “Its nice.” He says softly, kissing her shoulder, just over her bra strap, “Don’t think I told you earlier. But it is…nice. Pretty.” She flushes at the compliment, at the miniscule circuit of his thumb through the fabric. He gets a far off, almost whimsical look on his face when he looks at her chest and this time Jemma can’t find any reason not to snort. “They’re just breasts Fitz.” She chides softly, earns a solemn shake of Fitz’s head. “Shh you’ll offend them.” She laughs again and he applies a little more pressure to the next swipe of his thumb, makes her shiver. 

(Because it’s not always hard—a voice that sounds alarmingly like Skye cackles at her word choice inside her head—there’s still plenty to laugh about and enjoy and, as always, their world extends beyond any bedroom and is everything they share. And all of that, everything they have is everything falling in love with your best friend can be, even with former government intelligence agencies and crazy terrorist organizations from the Second World War running around). 

“You’re ridiculous.” Jemma says, not remotely stern or unkindly, and Fitz grins up at her, palms still cupped carefully around her breasts and thumbs stroking lazy circles through the material. Her nipples peak at the attention and the warmth gathering between her legs intensifies, makes her press her hips forward, down, grind just a little more firmly against the bulge of Fitz’s erection still confined in his boxer briefs. She watches his face carefully, the slight widening of his eyes, the way his grin slackens just a little in surprise, in pleasure, and she loves him, loves every inch of this man she’s watched grow from a cocksure genius back at the Academy. Fitz kisses her shoulder, her collarbone, the dip at the base of her throat, the top of her left breast, the side of her right. He moves his fingers out of the way and sucks her nipple between his teeth right through the sheer material, startles a moan out of Jemma at the sensation, cups her hand around the back of his head and digs her fingers into his disheveled hair to keep him in place. Her Fitz, always meeting a challenge head on. 

Literally in this case. 

“They’re yours.” He mumbles against her skin, hands gripping her waist, hips rising to meet hers, “You’re you.” He’s almost incoherent but his voice is stubborn, determined, impatient for her to understand, his fingers digging into her skin over the waistband of her knickers--less impressive than the bra, plain and perfunctory as far as underwear go, but Jemma honestly doesn’t care, knows for a fact Leo doesn’t considering how he’s panting against her chest, how hard he is between her legs--”You’re you.” Fitz repeats and Jemma kisses his temple where his hair is messy and frizzy from pulling his shirt off earlier. “I am, and you’re you.” She answers, because she thinks she understands, hopes he understands what she means by the words, how they burn in her blood and thud in her chest as furiously as her heart does. 

Leo starts to shake his head a little, but Jemma won’t have it, not right now, not ever, uses her hold on his hair to keep him still while she kisses him again, grips around blindly with her free hand to tug at the elastic waistband of his underwear until he lifts his hips off the mattress and helps her get them off. They tumble backwards in the process, Jemma sprawled inelegantly over his chest and Fitz’s fingers already starting to tug at her knickers. “This okay?” He asks, self-conscious still as though Jemma weren’t practically naked in his bed in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon, but she nods, smiling, graceless as she gets off him in order to kick her way free of the garment. 

“Like this?” Jemma asks, motioning to him, still on his back and her perched on her knees, and Leo’s eyes are fixed on her face, flush spreading down his throat and across his chest. He nods, head tip back towards the bedside table, mouth opening and closing in search of the right words. “I’ve got it, I’ve got--”

Jemma smiles wider, hopes it doesn’t call too much attention to the fact that he’s remembered the condom on his own this time. 

“Oh. Yes. Yeah. Let me just--” She reaches over him, giggles at the press of his mouth along her ribcage when she stretches to reach for the box of condoms in his bedside drawer. There’s the rattle of mediation bottles inside, a collection of pills he takes to mitigate headaches and help concentration, but there’s not the icy reminder they were the first time she saw them, don’t stall or stop them now. He’s still Fitz. Differences included. Still Fitz.

He handles the condom, grins proudly when he gets it on with minimal fumbling, and Jemma kisses him in reward. He doesn’t lay back down afterward, remains seated against the headboard and Jemma laughs when his fingers ghost over her sides, skim over the plane of her stomach. “Ready?” She asks, taking him in hand at his nod, lowering herself slowly, carefully, sighing at the stretch. Fitz groans against her throat, arms wrapping around her trapping her close. “Just--just hold still a second Jem.” He asks, even as his own hips wiggle, a small rock back and forward. There’s so much to feel, the breadth of him inside her and the angle of his hip bones pressing against hers, the scratchy hair on his thighs against her inner thighs and his breath hot against her chest. 

“Jemma.” Fitz breathes, one hand reaching between them, stroking over her where they’re joined and they both moan at the sensation, Jemma lifting her hips a little to give him more room. His fingers glide over her easily, sweep upward and circle her clit, rub it firmly, the way he’s learned she likes. She closes her eyes, bites the inside of her cheek and wills herself to keep still when all she wants to do is grab his hand and rock her hips, wants to move and have him move. “Leo.” She whispers, moans, a breathier sound than she knew she was capable of, “God, I--”

He rocks upward with purpose this time, sure in the movement, and they both groan, Jemma shifting more of her weight on her knees she can meet him thrust for thrust, thighs carrying her through the movements. Jemma laughs at the thought that all those hours strength training with Skye and May will at least pay off here. She tells Fitz and he groans, half-laughing, “So don’t want to think about May right now.” He says, “Next you’ll mention my mum.” 

Jemma wrinkles her nose, still giggling, “No need, you’ve just traumatized us both.”

Fitz kisses the side of her neck, “Yeah, ‘cause we both need more trauma.” 

It’s not especially funny, which only makes Jemma laugh harder, breathless, clutching at Fitz’s shoulders and fingers slipping into his hair, mouth pressed close in something that isn’t a kiss by any technical definition but feels good regardless. Leo’s fingers reappear at her clit, circling, stroking and Jemma knows she can come like this, can feel her cunt tightening around him at every press of his fingers over her and his cock inside her and the scrape of lace over her nipples until it’s all so much she can’t hold back any longer. It's a shivering heat, unfurls slow and deep inside her, pulses through her muscles and ripples over her skin.

She tries not to make too much noise when she comes, even if the room is made out of cement and buried under ground. There are eyes and ears everywhere and the thought of the Director or May or godforbid Hunter hearing her is mortifying in ways she can’t describe but even so she gasps noisily, makes a desperate sound against Fitz’s cheek she can’t bite down.

It takes her a moment to gather her bearings, to pull herself back from the fuzzy, warm feeling that follows an orgasm. “Okay?” Jemma asks, sitting up enough to look at Fitz’s face, sweat-slick and shining. “Do you want me to--”

Fitz shakes his head, “You feel good, just--just give me--”

She rubs over his shoulders, brushes a gentle kiss over the corner of his mouth, “Yeah, yeah, of course. I’m right here.” She circles her hips slowly, not lifting, wanting to stay as close as she can. The strain of keeping her legs open is starting to hurt but she doesn’t want to move, just presses closer. “Feels good--” she agrees, because it still does, keeps her movements steady, consistent, tightens the muscles of her cunt and relaxes just to hear the punched out grunt he makes at the feeling. “It feels good, right?” She has to check, make sure. It doesn't always, doing it this way, or at least not for as long as might take Fitz to come. Sometimes he can't and they'd had a long, red-faced conversation about that after the whole Mack incident. They've promised to be honest, for better or worse. They've tried keeping secrets from one another. Jemma likes knowing they can learn from their mistakes. 

“Yeah--yeah.” His left hand squeezes at her ass, holds her still and his hips jerk upward, rhythm lost as the air rushes out of him, spine stiffening under her palm as he finds his own release. He says her name over and over again, like he doesn’t believe it, like he’s not sure she’ll answer to it, and Jemma wraps her arms around his shoulders, holds his head to her chest just a moment longer. 

It’s hard to move but there’s no staying still, Fitz oversensitive and Jemma shivering now that the sweat has started to cool on her skin. She shrugs out of her bra, tugs on Fitz’s discarded t-shirt and a pair of his sweatpants, slips across the hall as discreetly as possible to clean up (as romantic as lingering in each other’s arms sounds, Jemma doesn’t fancy the thought of dealing with a UTI, thinks that overall health trumps unrealistic social expectations about what love and sex should be). By the time she’s back--the dormitory hall still blessedly empty-- Fitz has retrieved her clothes and folded them into a mostly neat pile on his desk chair. He’s dressed in a fresh pair of boxer briefs and an old Academy shirt, spilled languidly across the rumpled bedding, one hand on his stomach. He smiles when he sees her, pats the bed at his side. He looks so young, untroubled, and Jemma rolls her eyes, almost makes a comment about how they really do have things to do besides each other but decides against it. The bed looks lovely and she has time for a nap if they both set their alarms. World-saving escapades have earned them a little rest every now and again, she's sure of it. 

Fitz curls towards her until they’re lying nose to nose and they both go a little cross-eyed trying to look at one another but it’s alright Jemma figures, they’re not going to sleep with their eyes open. She hitches her knee up until it’s resting on his hip and he takes the invitation to crowd closer, arm over her waist, rocking them a little as he positions them both comfortably. 

“Good?” He asks once their settled, fingertips sneaking under the hem of his shirt and pressing against the small of her back. Jemma nods, hums quietly at the back of her throat. “Perfect.” 


End file.
